Second Chances: Embracing the Unexpected

The Middle One Isn’t the Unwanted One

“Mummy, I don’t want to go to Grandma’s!” shrieked seven-year-old Poppy, wriggling out of her mother’s grip. “She doesn’t love me! She only loves Aunt Lucy!”

“Poppy, don’t be silly,” sighed Eleanor, zipping up her daughter’s coat. “Grandma loves all her grandchildren the same.”

“That’s not true!” Poppy stamped her foot. “Yesterday she got Oliver an ice cream, but she didn’t get me one!”

“Maybe your throat was sore?” Eleanor suggested weakly.

“No! She just doesn’t love me because I’m not from her real son!”

Eleanor froze, a hairbrush dangling from her fingers. How did a seven-year-old know such things? Who had told her?

“Poppy, who said that to you?”

“No one,” the girl muttered, turning to the window. “I worked it out. Oliver says his dad and my dad are brothers. But my dad isn’t my real dad. My real dad lives far away.”

Eleanor’s chest tightened. She knelt beside her daughter on the sofa.

“Listen to me, love. Dad William *is* your real dad. He’s raised you since you were two. And Grandma Margaret loves you too.”

“Then why does she always praise Oliver and scold me?” Poppy’s eyes shimmered with tears.

Eleanor had no answer. Because Poppy was right. Her mother-in-law *did* treat her differently from Oliver, her eldest son’s child.

“Christ, are we late?” William poked his head in. “Pops, hurry up or Gran’ll be waiting.”

“I don’t want to see Grandma!” Poppy wailed. “She hates me!”

William blinked at his wife. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” Eleanor murmured. “Poppy, get your shoes. We’re *all* going to Grandma’s.”

They walked through the park in silence. Poppy trudged behind, sniffling. William carried groceries for his mother while Eleanor braced for disaster.

Margaret Whitmore had never been easy. When William brought home Eleanor and two-year-old Poppy, his mother had been frosty.

“Why take on someone else’s child?” she’d said. “Find a proper girl, have your own.”

But William was stubborn. He loved them both, married Eleanor, adopted Poppy, gave her his name. Margaret tolerated it—but never embraced the girl. Not like when her golden boy, James, gave her Oliver.

“Mum home?” William knocked.

“Coming!” Margaret flung the door open, pulling him into a hug. “Billy, I’ve missed you!” She kissed his cheek, nodded at Eleanor. “Hello, love.”

“Hello, Margaret.”

“And where’s my granddaughter?” Margaret finally spotted Poppy hiding behind William.

“Here,” the girl mumbled.

“Come in, then!” Margaret herded them to the lounge. “How’ve you been? Billy, you’ve lost weight!”

“No, Mum, I’m fine,” William laughed. “Eleanor feeds me well.”

“Good. And Poppy? How’s school?”

“Fine,” Poppy grunted.

“Poppy, *manners*,” Eleanor chided.

“Oh, let her be,” Margaret waved. “Kids will be kids. Oliver failed his maths test yesterday—James stayed up late helping him.”

“Poppy gets top marks in maths,” William said proudly.

“Clever girl,” Margaret said flatly. “James is bringing Oliver round later. Misses his uncle.”

Eleanor saw Poppy’s face fall. The girl *knew*—Grandma lit up for one grandchild, not the other.

“Mum, remember when Poppy recited that poem last month?” William prompted.

“Mm, lovely,” Margaret nodded.

“I know another one,” Poppy offered shyly.

“Go on, then.”

Poppy stood tall, voice ringing through the room, reciting verses about spring. Eleanor’s heart ached—her daughter *trying* so hard.

“Very nice,” Margaret said when she finished. “Now wash your hands; lunch is ready.”

Poppy scurried off. Eleanor lingered, helping set the table.

“Margaret, may I speak plainly?”

“About?”

“Poppy. She feels… you treat her differently.”

Margaret slammed a plate down. “Rubbish.”

“It’s not. She cried today, didn’t want to come.”

“And what have *I* done?” Margaret spun around. “I feed her, invite her over!”

“You *know* the difference. When Oliver’s here, you cuddle him, buy him presents. Poppy gets scraps.”

“Because she *isn’t* family!” Margaret snapped. “*I* didn’t birth her! She’s got her own gran—let *her* dote!”

Margaret, she’s been your granddaughter for *five years*,” Eleanor’s voice shook.

“Paperwork!” Margaret scoffed. “Blood’s blood. Oliver’s my flesh. That one’s just… a charity case.”

Eleanor’s throat burned. “So you’ll *never* love her?”

“Why should I? Have your *own* babies, then we’ll talk.”

Poppy burst in, trembling. “Mummy, why does Grandma call me a charity case? I’m her *granddaughter*!”

Eleanor’s stomach dropped. Margaret turned scarlet.

“Poppy, go to Dad,” Eleanor whispered.

“No! Why doesn’t she love me?”

“Poppy, I *do*—” Margaret stammered.

“Liar! You said I’m not family! But I *am*! I’m *Daddy’s* girl!”

Sobbing, Poppy fled. Eleanor shot Margaret a glare and followed.

In the lounge, Poppy wept into William’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Your mother called her a ‘charity case’,” Eleanor spat.

William went pale. “Mum. Is this true?”

Margaret wrung her hands. “Billy, I didn’t mean—”

“Grandma said I’m *nothing*!” Poppy hiccuped.

William stood, jaw clenched. “How *could* you?”

“Son, I just—”

“Christ, it’s a *child*, Mum! Seven years *old*!”

“But Oliver’s *blood*—”

“Damn blood!” William roared. “She’s *my* daughter! *Our* name! *Our* family!”

Poppy wailed. Eleanor held her tight.

“We’re leaving,” she said.

“Good.” William glowered. “Mum, when you’ve learned *both* girls are your granddaughters, *then* you’re welcome.”

“Billy, please—”

“No! No one hurts *my* kids. *No one*.”

Outside, Poppy clung to William’s hand.

“Daddy… do you *really* love me?”

“More than anything, Button.”

“Then why doesn’t Grandma?”

William crouched by a bench.

“Grown-ups can be daft, love. They think love’s only for ‘their own’. But real love doesn’t care who birthed whom.”

“But I’m not *yours*?”

“You *are*,” he said fiercely. “*I* chose you. Understood? I could’ve married some posh bird, had babies ‘proper’. But I picked *you*—and *Mum*. Because I loved you both.”

Poppy pondered this. “If we have a baby… will you love them more?”

William chuckled. “Nope. Equal shares.”

Listening, Eleanor’s heart swelled. Not every man would fight so hard for another’s child.

At home, Poppy vanished into her room. Eleanor and William lingered in the kitchen.

“Sorry about Mum,” he muttered.

“It’s not *your* fault, love.”

“But it’s *hers*.”

Later, Auntie Mabel from next door popped in.

“Why’s Poppy so glum? Saw her moping past the window.”

Eleanor explained.

“Well, ain’t people daft? Poor lamb! I raised my nephew after my sister died—loved that boy rotten. And what thanks d’I get? None!”

Eleanor checked on Poppy later. The girl was drawing.

“What’s this?”

“A card. For Grandma. Maybe she’ll love me then.”

It showed a house, four stick figures—mum, dad, child, gran—all holding hands.

“Beautiful,” Eleanor whispered. “Think it’ll work?”

“Dunno,” Poppy said honestly. “But I’ll try.”

Next day, William visited Margaret. Poppy insisted on joining.

They returned hours later. Poppy was quiet, William grim.

“How’d it go?”

“Gave her the card,” William muttered. “Mum said ‘ta’ and binned it.”

Eleanor hugged Poppy. “Some people can’t love, sweetheart. That’s *That evening, when the phone rang and Margaret’s shaky voice whispered, “I’d like to try again—properly, this time,” Poppy clutched her father’s hand and whispered back, “We’ll be there tomorrow, Gran,” because love, like spring, always finds a way to bloom again.

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Second Chances: Embracing the Unexpected